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Ye owners ! ye drivers ! reflect, and be just, Know, Providence lends all his creatures in
trust, And they who misuse them, nor suffer remorse, Must account to the Maker of both man and Horse.
THE HARE HUNT.
BY MR. DIBDIN.
Since Zeph'rus first tasted the charms of coy
morn, Ten thousand sweet birds court the smile of
Yet the morn's not so lovely, so brilliant, so gay, As their splendid appearance in gallant array,
When all ready mounted, they number their
forces, Enough the wild boar and the tiger to scare: Pity fifty stout beings, count dogs, men, and
horses, Should encounter such peril—to kill one poor
2 Little wretch, thy fate's hard !—thou wert
gentle and blameless; Yet a type of the world in thy fortune we see; And virtue, by monsters as cruel and shameless, Poor, defenceless, and timid, is hunted like
See! vainly each path how she doubles and tries: If she scape the hound Treachery, by Slander
she dies !
Too'ercome that meek fear for which men should
respect her, Ev'ry art is employ'd, ev'ry sly subtle snare Pity those that were born todefend and protect her, Should hunt to her ruin-so timid a Hare!
3 Thus it fares with poor Merit, which mortals
should cherish, As the heaven-gifted spark that illumines the
As Reason's best honour: lest with it should
perish Ev'ry grace that perfection can lend to
Ilark! Envy's pack opens ; the grim lurcher,
The rest all rush on, at their head the whelp
fair Candour Should hunt down-shame to manhood-s0
harmless a Hare !
Their sports at , an end, harsh Reflection's
beguiler To some thoughtless oblivion their souls they
resign; The Seducer takes pleasure, revenge the Re
viler, The Hunter's oblivion, as hurtful, is wine, Thus having destroy'd every rational joy * That can dignify Reason, they Reason destroy :
And yet not in vain, if this lesson inspirit
the Fair : So the tear of lost Virtue and poor' ruin’d Merit The sad manes shall appease of the innocent
1 Ophorns, and of echoes, that thro’the woods ring,
And of lads full of spirit and soul, And of gay sporting boxes let other bards sing,
Merely built for the chase or the bowl: I bring you, of Sportsmen, a true and try'd knot, Who sport a snug box, called Humanity's Cot.
2 Is Honour in danger, Worth sunk by its fears,
On those coursers their wishes, they're borne, To hunt Vice to the toils, and to dry Virtue's
tears, As the sun melts the dew of the morn:
Then join of true Sportsmen, so noble a knot, The good lads that inhabit Humanity's Cot.
3 What chase a delight can more glorious yield,
Than to hunt in so noble a track? Vice and Folly the game, wide creation the field,
And tho Vot'ries of Honour the pack. Rejoice then, ye sportsmen, who are thrown by
'Mongst the lads that inhabit Humanity's Cot.
4 Return'd from their toil, with life's comforts well
stor'd, Reflection their food gives a zest; Health seasons the viand that smoaks on their
And sweet are the slumbers that fall to the lot Of the lads that inhabit Humanity's Cot.
5 Let each English sportsman these maxims
embrace, Who the spoils of true honour would share, All that's noxious to hunt to the toils in life's
chase, All that's harmless and useful to spare :